Gunmage-Chapter 235: Where fire sleeps

In the stone-white cathedral of Ophris, with its towering red spires that pierced the pale sky like solemn sentinels, many routes—both open and hidden—wound downward into a well-concealed, sprawling subterranean network.

Unlike Drakensmar, where the underground layers pulsed with structure and order, the underbelly of Ophris was something else entirely.

It wasn’t underdeveloped, per se, but it lacked centralization.

Each noble family and influential organization had carved out its own private chamber of secrets—depths better left buried beneath layers of soil and stone.

The Church, as one of the most enduring institutions in all of Ophris, and indeed in the neighboring realms as well, was no exception. It harbored perhaps the most dangerous secrets of all.

The colossal cathedral at the heart of the capital stood as one of the most powerful and influential branches of the Church’s presence.

And today, it braced itself in solemn anticipation. The cause? An unannounced, unscheduled arrival from the highest reaches of the Ember Creed—an unexpected visit from the pope himself.

There had been no formal declaration, no fluttering of letters ahead of his coming. In fact, none of the intelligence networks that usually tracked such movements had even registered his departure.

But there he was, recognized unmistakably at the city gates.

Seated in a grand, custom-designed carriage, the wood lacquered to a sheen and engraved with the sigil of the Ember Creed—a chalice brimming with liquid flame—he rode with stillness, cloaked in a robe of crimson and ivory, rich and textured, embroidered with delicate sigils of fire and divinity.

He wore no papal cap. Instead, his long, snow-white hair hung loosely down to his waist, framing the youthful, almost jarringly young features of a man barely past the dawn of adulthood.

His posture was leisurely, one hand cradling his cheek as his elbow leaned against the window frame. He looked relaxed, indifferent even, as the alabaster cityscape of Ophris drifted by.

But those gleaming golden-red eyes told a different story. They were sharp, predatory. Quietly dissecting everything that passed his gaze.

The procession moved in utter silence, the kind that screamed of sanctity and surveillance.

Inside the lavish carriage, the pope’s gaze shifted from the window to the others riding with him: two elves—one male, one female—and a single human boy, well into his teenage years.

The boy looked visibly uncomfortable, anxious even, his posture stiff as he tried to occupy as little space as possible.

All three wore priestly robes, tailored finely, though none dared to match the grandeur of the pope’s attire.

The pope said nothing to them. His gaze passed over the human boy as though he were little more than decoration.

It returned to the outside world, where people bustled beneath the sun, going about their lives, as if the holy fire wasn’t rolling silently through their streets.

The white stone of the city gave it a dreamlike calm.

Then, the pope’s voice broke the silence.

"What is all the commotion about?"

The human boy blinked rapidly, confused, unsure if the question was meant for him.

He turned his gaze outwards, except for the occasional passer-bys that stopped to gawk at the procession, the streets were mostly peaceful. His expression only growing more confused.

A soft, honeyed voice cut through the quiet like the first note of a song.

"My sources tell me the Cross family is having a duel to determine house leadership,"

The female elf answered.

"Is that why everyone is getting riled up?"

The pope asked, his tone a notch above boredom.

"Over a simple duel?"

His expression hadn’t shifted an inch, still that relaxed disinterest. Yet, something subtle in his presence felt more alert.

The elven woman continued, her tone neutral but careful.

"The excitement is not so much about the duel itself,"

She explained,

"as it is about the spectators."

Still no words from the others, yet she instinctively elaborated.

"Specifically,"

She began again,

"one of the attendees. An Awakened who goes by the name Lugh Von Heim."

Silence followed. Not the kind born from uncertainty, but from sharp, collective focus.

The pope finally spoke.

"I’ve heard the name Von Heim,"

He paused.

"I don’t recognise the name Lugh."

All eyes returned to the elven woman, who remained composed.

"My sources tell me he was a bastard child, kept hidden."

There was no interruption, no movement, so she went on.

"He also publicly slaughtered twelve beastkin during his debut into high society."

The pope remained unfazed. His gaze was still angled toward the window.

"In a fight?"

He asked.

"They were assassins,"

She replied simply.

"Skillful, I see,"

The pope remarked, lips curving faintly.

"He is fifteen years old,"

She added.

This time, the pope turned. His posture hadn’t changed, but for the first time since entering the carriage, his golden-red eyes met hers directly.

"Well,"

He said slowly,

"That’s certainly impressive."

"He’s a human."

...

The entire carriage went still.

"What?"

"What?"

"...What?"

Even the younger human boy, previously so tense and disciplined, couldn’t hold back his gasp of disbelief.

The elf woman merely shrugged, her expression flat.

The male elf leaned forward slightly, his voice a deep, resonant timbre.

"Any chance the information is exaggerated?"

"Quite the opposite, actually,"

The woman replied.

"From what I hear, his opponents were an experienced pack. Experienced in human hunting, of course."

She added the last part deliberately, as if Lugh wasn’t human, despite it contradicting her earlier words.

After a brief pause, the pope finally asked,

"How far are we from the Cross Manor?"

"...Are you planning on going?"

The elven woman asked, expression unreadable.

The others had retreated back into silence.

The pope hummed thoughtfully.

"I’m thinking."

—

Deep within the Cross Manor, past a maze of ancestral chambers and training halls, Lugh walked beside Selaphiel.

They had just exited the underground dueling arena when Xhi’s final words echoed once more in his mind.

"I wasn’t talking about myself."

At that, Lugh’s stride stiffened, only slightly—but enough. Subtle, but telling.

He recovered quickly, letting the moment pass, resuming his usual stride without pause. But Selaphiel had noticed. Of course she had.

The words circled endlessly in her thoughts, rewriting the outlines of her previous assessments.

The boy beside her was no longer the perfectly convenient tool she’d once believed him to be. No—he was something else now. A ticking time bomb.

She sighed, rubbing at her temple. It was always like this. The most potent instruments came with the sharpest edge. The most unbelievable talents always bore the most unpredictable risks.

Zhou’s lithe form skittered ahead, moving quickly to catch up. The priestess had vanished to gods-knew-where, and Lyra was making her way through another passage toward her room, where she would no doubt change out of her ruined clothing.

She could still remember the mortified expression the girl had worn as she observed the damage.

As Zhou neared, she slowed to a walk beside Lugh, clearly unwilling to remain near Selaphiel longer than absolutely necessary. Her brow was furrowed, her thoughts restless.

And then she asked aloud, her voice cutting through the silence:

"What do you think she meant by that?"

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